


Ward and the Real Girl

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward gets some rare alone time and lets his mind wander. SkyeWard.  Smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ward and the Real Girl

Ward wakes up with something like a moan, arching his hips upwards in a quick thrust before letting out a sharp exhale and falling back onto his bed.  His mattress is stiff, as it always is, and after drawing in a few quick breaths it dawns on him that he’s hard as a fucking rod.  Fantastic.  His head lolls to the side to check his alarm.  It’s just a little past six.  If he gets in the shower now, he should be able to take care of this.

He moves to push the covers off and his hand brushes against the bulge of his erection under his sweatpants.  It’s not much contact, but it’s enough to rub the smooth fabric of his boxer briefs against the tip of his cock. He feels a small spark at the base of his spine.  He lets a small noise come out from his nose, opting to quickly kick off his sheets and even more quickly places his arm over his groin as he gets out of bed, ignoring the urge to rub himself, even just a little.  He silently moves from his bunk to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.  It’s early. It always is - early enough that his team is sure to be asleep. Except possibly May, since she never seems to sleep..  Nothing kills his private time quicker than urgent banging on the bathroom door.  He’d know.  It happens  _constantly_.

Ward’s hand reaches for the faucet and he waits for the water to warm up.  He strips with the same structure he always does, folding his clothes and placing them on the closed toilet, willing himself to ignore his erection.  His body is begging for it, but he still takes his time stepping into the shower, leaning forward with one palm flat against the wall.  He does not let his impulses control him.  Not even now.

The first stroke is gentle, tentative, not as forceful as he usually is with himself.  He doesn’t allow his eyes to shut, not yet.  Another stroke, sliding his hand lower down his shaft, letting the water from the shower drip forward off his back.  What had he been dreaming about?  He can see a flash of something like a smile in the back of his mind, and as he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, he thinks he can remember a noise; a breathy whisper, taking the shape of his name.

The voice.  The voice the voice the voice; he feels himself twitch at the memory of it.  It makes him growl somewhere deep in his throat, the words “Oh, Grant, please,” pouring from his ears.

It’s Skye’s voice.  It’s her voice, a whisper that he must’ve imagined.  He thrusts forward into his hand, letting out a grunt.  His palm is slick and hot and he tightens his grip, making his strokes harder, drawing them out.  He needs to feel the skin of his palm, rough and calloused and unyielding.  The way the the water sloshes between crevices.  Another groan.  

He’s dreamt of her before, in waking hours when she is far away and in his sleep where she is close and he is close and oh, fuck, he’d love to see her on her knees.  She’d look up at him through her dark lashes, and her curled hair would be falling over her slender shoulders.  She’d start by spitting in her hand, it would be filthy and crude but entirely  _Skye,_ and she’d make sure he was hard and he’d watch her mouth envelop him.  And her lips, her lips her lips.  Her sucked-in cheeks and her big brown eyes, maybe staring up at him, still, maybe closed.  He’d run his fingers into her dark hair, and it would be as soft as he’d always imagined it.  His grip would be firm but not demanding, and she’d lean every so slightly into his touch.  She’d slip her hand between her legs (he’d return the favor soon but she’s always so hands on, always so needy), and she’d moan and he’d feel every vibration of it, through his legs, through his spine.  “Skye,” he’d say, “I’m going to-”

  
  
There’s a shuffling outside the bathroom and Ward has to grab the shower bar to keep from slipping.  He pauses, waiting to see if anyone will knock on the door-but the only sound he can hear is the sputtering of the shower head.  He takes in a deep breath, and counts to three.  One, two-he’s still hard, and he moves his hand back from the shower rod.  

His tempo’s been interrupted but he doesn’t quite want to stop, not when it still feels this damn good.  He lets his head fall back and lets the water pound down on his scalp, it’s relaxing enough and his chest rises and falls save for the occasional hitch in his breath. He has to go faster than before, just to bring himself back to speed.  Skye.  Her smile.  Her breasts.  Her  _legs._

He could go down on Skye, if she wanted.  He thrusts forward at that thought.  She could sit on the edge of her bed and rest her legs on his shoulders.  He’d unbutton her jeans and slide them down her legs and then he’d nip at the inside of her thigh.  What would she taste like?  He tightens his grip and hisses through his teeth.  He could eat her out on the counters, on the couch.  On Coulson’s desk.  

He involuntarily bucks his hips.  He slows in his strokes, steadying himself and taking in a deep breath. He wants to feel his hand more closely, wants to experience the sensation.  He wants to go faster, longs to, but he won’t.  He doesn’t want to go off.  Not just yet.

Eating out Skye on Coulson’s desk.  The threat of discovery. The thrill. It would be late, just the two of them, praying that the team wouldn’t wake. She would squirm, he just knew it- squirm and toss her head from side to side, and she’d try (and fail) not to moan too loudly. She would tug at his hair and mewl with despair as he lifted her ass off the desk and dove deeper inside her. He imagined a throaty noise of surprise, forced out her by his diligent tongue. It’d be the hottest thing he’d ever heard.  Ward’s movements grew erratic, his hand slick and hot and tight and  _fast_. All alone, late at night, and he’d run his tongue along her-

  
  
Seriously, is there someone outside the bathroom?  He moves his head out of the water stream, trying to listen.  He hasn’t stopped stroking himself.  Maybe he should. He should be more cautious about this, but he also can’t remember the last time he let himself get this far. He listens for as long as he can bear, breath hitching in his throat and thumb tracing fire along his cock. There’s no one outside the bathroom, he decides.  It’s just him, and he needs this.

When he shuts his eyes tight enough, he thinks he can see bits of his dream. Flickers of skin on skin, laughter and lips and her hands around his waist. He twists his hand slightly on the next upstroke. The sensation nearly sends him to his knees.

He could take her into his room and pull her under his sheets.  They’re not much but they’d be cozy enough, and he’s got a fondness for low light and a warm bed and a beautiful girl pressed up against him.  He hears himself groan but doesn’t fully register it. He knows his grip is tightening, and his arm isn’t moving and he’s fucking his hand with more abandon than he’s used to. This- all of it, the desire, the need, the impulse – it’s overwhelming. His hips stutter, his movements becoming erratic.  _Skye_.

He imagines a heavy silence punctuated only by their breathing. Maybe he’d be on top, if she’d let him.  Her under him, surrounded by his warmth, moving against him.  He’d go slow, draw it out, slide his hands up her sides and cup her breasts.  Her hair would be splayed under her, almost black in the low yellow light, and she’d lean up to kiss him and settle back down with a sigh.  “Grant,” she’d whisper, “I think I love you.” His heart swells, he slides his fingers along her stomach and nestles his mouth against her neck. “Skye, I-“

  
  
"WARD!" 

His feet slip on the porcelain floor, but he doesn’t stop pumping.

“Who is it?” he manages. God, he’s  _so_  close.

“Does it matter?” Since it’s Skye, he’d have to say  _yes,_ it matters. “I really have to pee!” Skye yells, pounding on the bathroom door. “Hurry up!”

Ward could cry, and not just because the water is going cold. He can’t finish with Skye outside the door, her voice the same but her words entirely different.  He shudders. Maybe from the water, maybe from the fragmented illusion. 

"Skye," he yells back, still pumping his hand, "we have like, two other bathrooms!"  He feels something like guilt creeping into his head, and he shouldn’t finish but oh, fuck he’s close.

"But I want to use this one," she yells back.  "You’ve been in there forever!  Are you like, jacking off in there?"  He almost snaps "Yes, do you mind?" but he’s terrified of her response. All he can manage is stunned silence.

“Oh my God, are you really?” she asks. “Ward!” She won’t stop banging on the door. She’s going to wake the entire bus up at this rate.  He should probably stop touching himself.  Probably.

“Am I what?!” he shouts back.

“Are you actually touching yourself?” Skye yells, and he winces.   She’s giggling outside the door, and it’s childish and unfair and he wouldn’t make fun of her if this situation was turned around, so really-

“Oh,  _Ward_ ,” Skye echoes from outside the door, “are you thinking about me?  Do I make you  _hard_?”  She sounds like a porn star, in that he’s sure she’s faking it.  And if he hadn’t just been thinking about having sex with her, he probably would be able to shake it off. To stop pumping.

“Oh,  _baby_ ,” Skye cries, and it makes him twitch and twist his hand on the upstroke, because it might be fake and weird but he’s getting close enough that he can’t bring himself to care.  

“Oh, give it to me!”  He strokes faster.  This is wrong and stupid and where does she even get off, doing this to him?  And his hand really does feel so good and he’s starting to feel tight and breathless.  He chokes back a moan in his throat as he runs his thumb over the tip and, and-

“Grant,  _please_ ,” and she has the audacity to use his first name and it makes him come on impact. 

“Holy fuck,” he half-yells.  He’ll regret it in a moment, of course, but he can feel his whole body tensing from his spine spreading outwards, and he feels everything at once like a bolt and then he goes blissfully, wonderfully numb.

  
  
Ward takes another five minutes to rinse off.  He ignores the tremors in his hands.  If Skye’s still outside the door she’s stopped knocking, and he’s not sure if he wants her there or not.  What would she do to him, anyway?

He shuts the water off without much fuss and ties a white towel around his waist, clothes tucked neatly under his arm.  She’s not outside the door.  He tells himself he’s not disappointed, or embarrassed, and when he gets back to his room the door is ajar, and he doesn’t gulp nearly as hard as he should.

Skye stares at him from his bed, cross-legged in her pajamas.  Her hair falls over her shoulders and she hasn’t put her makeup on yet, but she smiles at him.

“Hi,” she says. “Let’s talk.”


End file.
